


Meet the Striders

by Edgelord (lostlikeme)



Series: Christmastime with the Strider-Lalondes [1]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Roxy, Alternate Universe, Bad Parenting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Special, Drunk Roxy, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Humanstuck, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Narcissism, Sibling Incest, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlikeme/pseuds/Edgelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can be read as a stand alone or as part of the series. </p><p>This is definitely the most dysfunctional family Christmas you've ever had, but hardly the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meet the Striders

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] \--

TG: rose  
TG: rose  
TG: rose are you there  
TG: i come bearing a sack of gifts and an assload of yuletide cheer  
TG: cmon rose blow out the candles  
TG: toss a sheet over the pentagram on your wall  
TG: and come out to celebrate the birth of santa with the rest of the family  
TG: we can exchange wool socks over watery hot chocolate  
TG: psychoanalyze the true intentions of will ferrels character in the movie elf  
TG: you can be all like  
TG: wow will ferrells interest in that long oblong shaped gift cements his flagrant homosexuality  
TG: his lack of proper family structure done fucked up his whole brain  
TG: and ill be like wow astute observation dr lalonde where did you get your degree  
TG: then bro will complain that he cant hear  
TG: and mommy will talk about what a hot hunk of elfin man meat will ferrell is  
TG: then dirk will be like  
TG: no way orlando bloom is way hotter  
TG: and ill be like orlando bloom isnt even an elf and im team gandalf you just like the pretty boys bro  
TG: then the conversation will casually slip into an academic evaluation of wizards and their hot bods  
TG: lets have a perfect brady bunch xxxmas rose  
TG: ill even let you be marsha  
TG: no wait  
TG: i want to be marsha  
TG: but rose you can be one of the other less hot sisters  
TG: im sorry but im the hot one its just the way the cookie crumbled  
TG: i know youre there  
TG: maybe i can even convince mommy to compromise and we can light some funky smelling incense like true catholics  
TG: you like incense  
TG: witches love that shit right  
TG: lets do this thing  
TG: we can have your dinky little rowhome reeking with the dank scent of our favorite morbidly obese white man  
TG: and im not talking about that chubby poser michael moore  
TG: dj chris cringle up in this shit about kick it old saint nick style  
TG: rose i know you want to help me put the chris back in christmas  
TG: ill have you know santa didnt die for our sins so you could sulk in your room during the celebration of his birth  
TT: Technically, we’re more baptist than catholic.  
TG: homeboy cc dont give a shit about semantics  
TG: as long as you have some magical holiday hoopla hiding deep within the folds of the hole where your heart used to be  
TG: then thats it  
TG: thats all it takes  
TG your sins are forgiven  
TT: Well when you put it like that, how could I refuse?  
TG: im sure you could find a way  
TT: Nonesense.  
TT: With a paramount endorsement from thee Dave Strider, I’m nearly compelled to RSVP.  
TG: ok but  
TG: mommy is threatening to bring christmas into your room if you dont get down here  
TG: i hope youre dressed bc when bro comes storming up the steps with a fully decorated six ft american pine in his arms  
TG: well lets just say your girlish shrieks of embarrassment arent going to stop him  
TT: …  
TG: exactly and the last thing you want is some jesus tree in there riling up all those demons and dementors and whatever the hell other kind of dark arts you got fermenting up there  
TT: Fermentation?  
TT: You’ve been tarrying with our mother again, haven’t you?  
TG: tarrying  
TG: you make it sound so lewd  
TT: Conversing, then.  
TT: Preparation for assuming the throne?  
TG: yes  
TG: everything the alcohol touches is her kingdom  
TG: and soon its going to be all mine  
TG: she was just about to tell me the secret ingredient in her jello shots  
TG: and after that were gonna to head to the bathroom and shes gonna to show me how to vomit like a real man  
TT: I’m torn between two antipodean desires.  
TT: The first: to joyfully skirt my responsibilities and take my fate into my own hands by braving a journey through the wilderness.  
TT: And the second: murdering you and reclaiming my birthright.  
TG: no but  
TG: were just hanging out shooting the shit geeze thats what families do on holidays  
TG: you know  
TG: pretend to enjoy each others company  
TG: maybe drink a little too much eggnog with dinner  
TG: become increasingly inebriated as our lives fall to shit and hilarity ensues  
TG: christmastime with the strider lalondes  
TG: rated pg 13  
TG: for language sexual implications hot bods and substance abuse  
TT: I eagerly await a signed copy of the manuscript.  
TT: The movie rights are still available, I presume?  
TG: oooo sorry  
TG: i just got off the phone with warner brothers and it turns im a literal genius  
TG: will smith just signed a contract to play me for the first movie and all ten of its unnecessary sequels so  
TT: What a shame.  
TT: If I owned the rights, I’d assure the casting director would do away with us minorities altogether.  
TG: yea well you know what they say  
TG: early bird gets the movie deal  
TT: Delightfully obtuse metaphors aside, I’ve already decided to grace the lowly peasants with my presence.  
TG: the pleasure is all mine  
TT: Really?  
TT: I’m still trying to wrap my brain around that erogenous freudian slip of your tongue.  
TG: whoa dont be coming at my accidental verbal slip ups youre supposed to just let that shit fall to the wayside due to our unbreakable sibling bond  
TT: I’ve met you all of...what, eleven times?  
TG: well yeah but  
TG: wait  
TG: what freudian slip of tongue  
TG: i didnt even mention plush dicks bananas cigars balloon animals popsicles hotdogs sausages or other phallic shapes this time  
TT: I distinctively recall mention of a certain tall, cylindrical christmas present.  
TG: no that was will ferrell  
TT: Though that isn’t what I’m referring to.  
TG: oh  
TT: I’m talking about your consistent use of the word “Mommy” to describe Roxy.  
TG: just cause you have such a crippled relationship with our mother that youre on first name basis doesnt mean i have to be  
TT: I prefer the term “nonexistent” to “crippled”.  
TG: did you ever think that after an entire lifetime with bro i might be a little starved for some nurturing motherly affection  
TG: can you blame me for missing my mommy have a little heart  
TG: that guy is a wall of untouchable denial with a self inflated ego and dorito cheese coating  
TT: I hate to break it to you Dave, but you two aren't exactly vastly different.  
TG: you know what i have a feeling you dont actually hate to break it to me  
TG: and in fact youre going to enjoy the fuck out of breaking it to me more than a news reporter with a broken leg break dancing and eating a kitkat bar  
TT: I’m not certain what that string of words was meant to accomplish.  
TG: youre just gonna tell me me some psychobabble that traumatizes my brain  
TT: I am capable of speaking fastidiously.  
TG: haha  
TG: sure you are  
TG: and im capable of talking without riddling my own prose with incestual subtext  
TT: Did you know, Dave, that there is a species of fish that spends all of motherhood carrying her offspring inside her mouth?  
TG: no i didnt and i would like to please unsubscribe from trifling fish facts dot gross k thanks  
TT: That fish would take a look at your relationship with our mother, and turn to you and say, “Wow, that’s messed up.”  
TG: wow rose thanks for another wonderful update on how i want to boink our mom thats exactly what i wanted to hear today  
TT: I assumed that’s why you pestered me.  
TG: whats next  
TG: does me calling our dad bro symbolize my desperate need to relate to him as a peer so i can smash my face into his crotch and have at it like a dog in a toilet bowl  
TT: I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s entirely conceivable.  
TG: why stop there  
TG: lets turn this into one huge family friendly fuck fest  
TT: And I suppose I’m the only one expected to remember to bring lubricant?  
TG: you know what fine  
TG: dont come down  
TG: stay upstairs in your room with your black curtains and deathmetal forever  
TT: Is that what kids are calling Tchaikovsky these days?  
TG: yes  
TG: and it’s turning you into a monster  
TG: lets hope for all of our sakes that you havent been baked all summer because last year i spent nearly all of christmas feeling around in your boobys trapped room just to find you  
TT: What was that dear brother?  
TT: Feeling around my boobys?  
TG: i give up  
TG: you know what no  
TG: im not playing hide and go seek in the dark anymore  
TG: bumping into creepy voodoo dolls and black magic books like the prelude to a japanese horror movie  
TG: seek the sister is over  
TG: this time im just slamming into that shit and if youre in there blending into the darkness and assimilating with shadows  
TG: tough break  
TT: You know I try my best to avoid the sun when I can.  
TT: The only person less likely to tan than me would be you.  
TT: Last year you nearly stole the spotlight from the beautiful glowing angel atop our merry Christmas tree.  
TT: Perhaps this year you can subvert the issue by climbing to the tippy top and becoming one with the holiday fir altogether.  
TG: when i break my ankle falling out of it im charging the hospital bill to your name  
TT: Is a hospital really necessary?  
TT: I’m sure a kiss from Mommy dearest will make it all better.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] \--

Your name is Rose Lalonde and you are currently lamenting your ill-drawn hand of luck in life. You'd consult your tarot cards but you have a feeling the results won't differ. Though it’s only nine-fifteen in the morning the air is already ripe with the sweet fragrance of cigarette smoke and gin. When you shut your laptop and stumble into the living room bleary eyed and disoriented, your younger brother springs across the room from his original place on Roxy’s lap. You shake your head but keep further commentary regarding Dave’s overt Mommy issues to yourself.

Dave and Dirk are dressed in two of the gaudiest, ugliest Christmas sweaters you’ve ever seen. Dave’s sweater has protruding balls of cotton sewn to the front that act as the body for a sinister snowman. Roxy leers at you from behind a glass of what you can presume is mimosa, but you’re too distracted by the half dressed man in the kitchen next to Dirk to really notice.

“I was right afterall,” you mutter to yourself as you remove a glass from the cabinet. You can feel their eyes on you as you reach for the orange juice. You turn back to face them as you pour the champagne and Dave glances away. “I always wondered if your were nursing a predilection for white meat, or if our mother was just a fluke,” you explain as you sip your drink. 

Dave snickers and Roxy giggles. “Now Rosey, I wasn’t just some hot piece of ass your father picked up off the street,” Roxy admonishes.

Dirk shoots you a terrible impression of fatherly disappointment. Instead he just looks mildly constipated. “I remember you distinctly less sassy,” he says.

“Oh really? I remember you distinctly less…” you take a moment to reconsider, dragging your eyes up the length of his legs and across his well muscled torso. You take note of the way unnamed jewish manservant has his fingers curled around Dirk’s belt loops. “Actually, you were just as flamboyant last year, if I do recall.”

Dirk makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “You’re paler, too. At this rate you’re going to catch up to Dave.” Award for most judgemental absentee parent goes to Dirk Strider.

“I have a condition,” Dave whines from beside your mother. “It’s the same as what Michael Jackson had, but worse.” You roll your eyes. “I just keep getting lighter and lighter, until eventually I transcend melanin and become white itself. As per formal international protocol the KKK will then knight me as white ruler at the president’s impeachment ceremony. My face will hang in a frame on a wall of fame for the whitest dudes in all of history,” he pauses for dramatic effect. “Just think, your little Davey up there right next to Vanilla Ice and Donald Trump. I will bring pride to the Strider-Lalonde name.”

Roxy quietly congratulations Dave on yet another unnecessary extended metaphor while Dirk begins frying breakfast sausage. “Do you ever see the sun?” he asks you condescendingly.

You nod. “I see it set every morning, just as I’m preparing for bed.” You tap your chin thoughtfully as you survey the living room. Calling it a complete mess would be an understatement. There is a small pile of haphazardly wrapped gifts waiting beneath the tree, scotch tape doubled over around the edges. The rolls of wrapping paper are just a few feet away, propped up in front of the doorway. There’s scraps of ribbon and paper carelessly strewn across the table and carpet.

Dave slides by the counter and snatches an entire piece of french toast from the communal plate with his bare hands. He thoroughly drenches it in syrup before folding it in half and stuffing it into his mouth. “Yeah, Bro,” Dave says. His corroboration is completely fortuitous, especially after the way you reamed him in that pesterlog, but you’re not one to kick a gift horse in the mouth (on christmas morning, no less.) “It’s your messed up genetics that spat Rose out like a broken cow and me like the one hundred and second dalmatian.”

Roxy snorts into her drink--something pink in a martini glass with a tiny umbrella--more champagne, you imagine. “Good job Davey,” she slurs. “A woman always ‘ppreciates being compared to a, uh, cow.”

Dirk smirks and gives Dave a thumbs up. “That’s how I wooed your mother, sweet-talking her like that.”

For a moment you’re almost certain your father is suggesting that there’s a sexual subtext in what your brother just said to you. “We can’t all be as easy as Mom,” you say while smiling pleasantly.

Roxy nods her head. “It ain’t easy being easy,” she mumbles to no one in particular. “C’mere my lil’ spotless dalmatian,” she cooes. Dave looks humiliated by the request, but your father is too engrossed in a conversation about dreidels with your shirtless house guest to notice the ongoing breach in socially acceptable platonic mother-son love.

“That’s racist,” he says, slinking over to Roxy as he licks his fingers clean of syrup. “White privilege,” he complains as he approaches her. 

Roxy shakes her head and chides him. “It’s not racist because I’m your Mommy silly,” she says, patting the seat beside her. When Dave sits down she leans back and nudges him until he’s resting his head against her chest. Roxy runs her fingers through Dave’s hair and goose pimples prick on your forearms. 

“Mom privilege,” Dave whispers hoarsely from across the room.

Disturbingly, you’re starting to feel like a fifth wheel. You clear your throat to passive-aggressively alert the entire room to this fact. Your valiant effort at communicating goes unnoticed so you switch tactics. 

“So Daddy,” you start, to make sure you have his attention. “Where exactly did you meet our new Jewish manservant?”

Dirk’s jaw tenses and his entire body goes rigid at the word in a wholly satisfying way. He turns to you stiffly. “I wouldn’t know,” he says with a smirk. “You’d have to ask your mother.” 

Roxy giggles tellingly from the couch. “He helped me wraps gift,” she says deflating into the couch cushions.

“I thought he was Jewish,” Dave says from beside your mother. 

“Who said he was Jewish, anyway?” Dirk asks. 

You shake your head. “I believe it was his beard,” you suggest. That drags a smile out of the poor thing. “See.”

Unwrapping christmas gifts is less thrilling and more of a pitiful struggle. Your mother is so inebriated that Dirk has to unwrap most of the presents for her. The first two are from you and your brother: a bottle of gin and a bottle of strawberry vodka, respectively. Her third and final gift is from Dirk, a thick tome of a book entitled “The 12 Step Program.” You’re not sure what that says about your family, but you’ll probably know for certain later after you write a twenty paged dissertation on alternative family structures and dynamics.

Dave receives three gifts: a japanese sword with an unpronounceable name from Dirk, a string of multicolored condoms a mile long from Roxy, and your gift, a completely preserved baby crocodile squished morbidly into a jar with proper preservation fluid. Dave cracks a genuine smile upon opening it, and you think you managed to nail his warped sense of aestheticism on the head.

Despite the simplicity of Roxy’s gift you find yourself seething at genuineness. Year after year you’ve received nothing but passive-aggressive jabs at your personal interests, usually in the form of statues, wands, hats, and other wizard paraphernalia. You’re surprised Dirk gets any gifts at all, but he receives the My Little Pony complete Rainbow Dash collection from Dave and a bright pink bobbled vibrator from your mother.

You opt for opening your gifts last. The present from your mother is predictably bad (the entire Harry Potter series in hardback, you swear, she does this kind of shit just to mock you.) You didn’t think it was possible, but Dirk’s is even worse, “Wicca: For Dummies.” You aren’t expecting Dave’s gift to be much better, which is why you are thoroughly floored when you open the box and find a signed, first edition copy of “Beyond Oedipus: How Birth Order and Family Dynamics Affect the Psyche.”

Seemingly out of your control, you chance a glance in his direction. You swallow your smile and settle for quirking the corner of your lips. He flashes you a double thumbsup before curling his fingers on one hand into a circle and penetrating it with his other thumb. You snort and shake your head before turning back to your book, caressing the smooth hardback cover with your palm. When you flip it open that fresh new book smell assaults your senses. The pages feel crisp and dry beneath your fingers.

A tug on the back of your shirt distracts you, and when you turn you find Dave half hanging from the edge of the couch in order to reach you. He flashes you needy puppy dog eyes from over the rim of his shades and you concede, moving awkwardly to sit next to him. Dirk takes this as his cue to slide into the cushion beside you from his former perch on one of the barstools. Jewish man is snoozing lightly, back propped up against the wall. Under the glow of pink christmas lights he almost looks attractive in that young, homely, vaguely homosexual way that your mother often finds endearing.

When Dirk wraps an arm around you your entire body goes rigid in discomfort. You’ve known this man only sporadically throughout your life, but he’s still close enough to being your father that your reaction spikes a surge of guilt in your limbic system. “Didn’t Ro-Lal teach you how to straighten this?” Dirk asks, carding his fingers through the mass of dark hair growing freely from your head. It effectively destroys the moment and any sympathy you might have been harboring for him.

You feign naivete. “Of course not. She merely turned on a curling iron and threw it at me.” 

Roxy laughs before joining in. “After that I locked her in the bathroom and told her she couldn’t come out til her hair looked proper.” 

You continue the story seamlessly. “I remember that. When you finally let me come out the entire house was painted in red.” 

Dave snorts and wiggles a bit, crushing you against Dirk’s side. “I remember that day, I think it was a couple weeks ago. You were still on the rag, remember?” 

Roxy claps her hands together and the enthusiasm almost fools you. “That explains the red!” she exclaims.

When the giggling fit subsides Dirk asks your mother if he should get out “the present.” Your mother looks perfectly perplexed. “What pres--presence-present. What present?” Roxy manages at last, twiddling her fingers at your shoulder. Has everyone in this family always been this touchy feely? 

“You know,” Dirk says, eyes skittering towards the hallway. “The good one,” he adds with a definitive arch of his eyebrows.

Roxy’s face contorts in confusion as she tries to remember. Then she leans over, across Dave and you, until her bottle blond hair is shoved in your face and you’re thoroughly squished between your two male family members. “Spell it,” she whispers ineffectually. 

“Ro-Lal,” Dirk says after a snort of amusement. “They’re fifteen years old.” 

Roxy looks unperturbed. “Soooo.” You resist the urge to double face-palm.

“So,” Dirk continues. “So I’m pretty certain they can read.” 

Roxy scoffs. “Black people can’t read,” she scolds, words stuttering into laughter. 

Dirk vibrates as he chuckles, forcing you to sway halfway onto Dave. Despite your usual aversion to physical affection, the warmth radiating from your brother’s skin isn’t exactly unwelcome. You allow yourself to learn against his side, kneecaps brushing. Will Ferrell has a mental breakdown inside a shopping mall on screen. 

“What a hottie,” your mother says when he falls onto the ground in typical slapstick style. You still aren’t sure if your mother is being ironic or if you can safely say her taste in men is “all of the above.”

The touch against your arm is so feather light that at first you think you’re imagining it. When you finally glance down you discover that Dave’s fingers are twitching absentmindedly against your arm as he raptly watches the television screen. Curious, you observe him for a few moments, taking note of the way his foot is jittering against the carpet and the way he’s pressed his shades closer to his face for the third time in a row.

Dirk shakes his head with another chuckle and unsticks himself from the couch, causing you to lapse wayside into Dave’s lap. Though you scramble away post-haste the warm pressure you feel briefly against your wrist is all too telling. You yank yourself away and when you glance at the crotch of his jeans he shifts awkwardly so he can hide what you can only assume is a massive erection.

“I guess that’s one stereotype we can’t blame white people for perpetuating,” you start. Verbally announcing your brother’s concealed hard-on wasn’t something you imagined you’d be doing when you woke up this morning, but in retrospect, you should have known. Trading banter and embarrassing each other occurs so naturally that you  
barely notice how inappropriate it is anymore.

“What’s that baby?” Roxy asks. 

“Black cocks,” you say simply. Dave’s face begins filling with red but he remains frozen and silent. “They really are above-average in size.” 

Roxy nods her head. “Oh no honey, you can definitely blame white people for perpetuating that one,” she says with a wink. Is it even possible to phase your family anymore? 

“Is that true, brother?” you ask, elbowing him in the side. 

Roxy reaches behind Dave to flick you on the shoulder. “Of course it’s true!” she exclaims, giving Dave’s bicep a firm squeeze. “Like father like son!”

Your father’s dramatic introduction is enough to distract you from your mother’s blase behavior regarding Dave popping a wheelie, but not enough to make you forget. Dirk drops an enormous box into the center of the living room, wrapped in bright pink paper with a huge red bow. When you begin to stand your father motions for you to wait while your brother fishes out the camera from where he’s lost it inside the couch cushions. When you untie the ribbon the camera flash nearly blinds you. Dave fans a polaroid while you pick at the wrapping paper.

“Well?” Roxy prods. “What do you think?”

You stare derisively at your shared gift that’s boldly present in fifty shades of fuchsia. Your eyes flicker to the side where you can better gauge Dave’s reaction. His emotionless facade doesn’t crack a bit, but when he shoves his camera into your hands you can see that his fingers are trembling. The side of the box reads, “Barbie Princess Dream Castle,” in pink sparkly letters. Your gut churns and your tongue feels heavy in your mouth.

“Why?” is all you manage.

Dirk shrugs, looking as nonplussed as ever. “You said you wanted it, remember?”

“When I was three and a half,” you remind him succinctly, turning to Dave for support. Instead you find him wrapped in a tight embrace with Roxy on the couch, thanking her as he presses his face against her breasts.

The sound of a deep voice snags your attention and your eyes swivel back to Dirk. A single eyebrow arches over his pointed sunglasses. Though his eyes aren’t visible you can all but see them skate between you and the couch. There’s a fine migraine blossoming in your frontal cortex. 

“Jealous?” he asks. 

Your eyes widen. Something in your chest ruptures. You feel sick.

The trip to your room is agonizingly slow, and yet no one seems to take notice of it. Your stomach gurgles and groans in protest the entire slow ascension, and when you finally reach the top of the steps you feel strangely dizzy. The walk through the hallway is just as treacherous, and your brain is abuzz with apprehension and disquiet the entire way there. 

The scene from just a few moments ago won’t stop replaying in your mind: the blinding pink, the way Dave’s eyes lit up when you peeled away the last of the wrapping paper, and worst of all, the self-satisfied smirk Dirk tossed your way while your brain malfunctioned.

After a few moments pass and you can still hear your family conversing joyfully downstairs, you aren’t sure whether you feel envious and distinctly salty or relieved. You chew on your lip and open your laptop. You aren’t even sure what you ran away from--Dave’s poorly concealed boner, your father’s constant passive aggressive control issues, your mother’s alcoholism, or your own speechlessness. Okay, so you are certain. It was definitely your own humiliation.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

TT: You keep your phone logged into Pesterchum while spending the holidays with your family?  
TT: How crass.  
TG: says the girl messaging me from it  
TG: while hiding out in her room from the sheer shame  
TG: of being sassed strider style  
TT: I don’t think “Bro” cares for me much.  
TG: nah that guy loves you hes always trying to come up with shit to impress you  
TT: I find that difficult to believe.  
TG: you should have heard him before we left  
TG: is this christmas sweater ugly enough  
TG: does this garland make my butt look big  
TG: do you think rose will catch onto the subtle irony in her present  
TG: what if i didnt go full irony enough  
TT: I was unaware he desired the Rose Lalonde stamp of approval so desperately.  
TG: well yeah so does mommy  
TG: for some reason they feel the need to constantly impress you like you arent just an angsty fifteen year old with fluctuating hormones  
TT: You don’t?  
TG: nah  
TG: i was born with the rose lalonde stamp of approval  
TT: It tears my heart so that I fail to remember such a sentimental moment shared between us.  
TG: well i survived the pregnancy so theres that  
TT: Oh, I didn’t realize that me not absorbing you in utero meant I “approve” of you.  
TG: eh  
TG: close enough  
TG: not bro and mommy though  
TG: mister and misses try to hard  
TT: Are you honestly attempting to convince me that both of our parents seek my approval?  
TG: yeah basically  
TG: im pretty positive they feel like huge asses for being such piece of shit parents in the first place  
TT: They are terrible parents, then?  
TT: It’s nice to know that I’m not merely victimizing myself and exaggerating their shortcomings.  
TG: yeah dude theyre kind of the worst  
TG: okay maybe not like the actual worst  
TG: eminems mom used to slip pills into his food when he was like five  
TT: I don’t know, living life drugged from birth has a certain appeal to it.  
TG: theyre definitely in the running for worst parents of the year  
TT: Honorable mention, at least.  
TG: but see what i mean  
TG: they arent even the best at being the worst  
TG: if they were as bad as eminems mom at least then maybe i could draw some artistic inspiration from all the angst and my determination to prove them wrong could fuel my career  
TG: you could be writing memoir after dark memoir and become one of the youngest best selling authors  
TG: instead we just end up with a gay dingbat and an alcoholic  
TT: Let’s not forget the unnamed Jewish man.  
TG: lets actually did you see the way he was coming onto bro  
TT: Can you blame him?  
TT: Our father is a fit, eligible bachelor, and our mother has a tendency to pick up gay men.  
TG: fair enough  
TG: i still i think the daddy thing was definitely a breaking point  
TT: Me too.  
TT: Homosexual or otherwise, that’s textbook twink downstairs.  
TG: i mean with you  
TG: that totally trashed his mood  
TT: It isn’t my fault that the man has so much difficulty separating his sexuality from the rest of his life that the mere mention of the word “Daddy” from his own daughter sends him into psychogenic shock.  
TG: well yeah  
TG: theres logic  
TG: and then theres bro way on the other side of the room remembering the way his step dad fiddled his flute  
TT: Oh.  
TT: If only Freud knew how right he was.  
TG: his ghost is probably scrolling through the daddy dom tag on tumblr like  
TG: i told you fucking dumbasses  
TG: i told you dog  
TG: i warned you about how we all sexually imprint on our parents man  
TT: Who knows how twisted and warped our own sexualities will be by the time we’re his age?  
TG: hey who says theyre not all fucked up already  
TT: Speaking of which.  
TG: shit  
TG: what can of worms did i just open  
TG: is there anyway to close it  
TG: rose please this is too many worms  
TG: i couldnt use them all in a hundred fishing trips in the mountains while you take care of the kids  
TT: Look at that, your metaphor is already on topic.  
TG: just say it already  
TG: the anticipation is killing me  
TT: Do you know Freud’s stance on brother-sister relationships?  
TG: uh  
TG: no  
TG: but the real question here is  
TG: do i wanna know  
TT: Probably not.  
TG: but you’re going to tell me anyway arent you  
TT: Not if you don’t want to hear it.  
TG: thats such bullshit youre always flapping at the yaw about stuff i specifically tell you i dont want to hear  
TG: sometimes you open your mouth and i literally say please dont finish that sentence but bam you finish it anyway  
TG: and im like oh great now i just have to sit here while knowledge regarding which level of fucked up i’ve climbed to today is imparted upon me  
TG: like youre some kind of mystical witch of penis symbolism  
TG: jesus santa fucking christ  
TG: just tell me  
TT: Sorry, I seemed to have lost track of the topic betwixt your rambling.  
TT: What are you asking again?  
TG: okay rose jfc  
TG: no rose what is frueds stance on brother sister relationships  
TT: Why David, I’m so glad you asked.  
TG: i hate you so much  
TT: He says approximately nothing on the entire matter.  
TG: you are the worst sister ive ever had  
TT: There were others before me?  
TT: Should I worry for your virtue?  
TG: yes  
TG: because if i did in fact have sisters before you  
TG: that would of course imply that i was somehow attracted to them  
TG: thats how freudian psychology works for you right  
TG: everyones gay and in incest with each other  
TT: Now you’re catching on.  
TT: And here I was beginning to worry you might be a little slow.  
TG: so are you going to tell me what freud says about how siblings frick and frack or is that it this is the show  
TT: Unfortunately, yes.  
TT: Freud ignored nearly all other family relationships when devising the Oedipus theory.  
TT: Occasionally he portrayed siblings of the opposite sex as doubles of the parents themselves.  
TG: the fuck  
TT: Essentially, for Freud sibling relationships had no independent existence outside of the Oedipal Conflict.  
TG: damn  
TG: thats fucked up  
TT: You sound almost...disappointed?  
TT: As if you were eagerly awaiting information regarding how siblings are somehow psychology preconditioned to want to copulate with one another.  
TG: why would i ever eagerly await that  
TT: I’m not sure.  
TT: Possibly for the same reason you gifted me a Psychology book that extrapolates on those theories specifically.  
TG: and that would be  
TT: The extrapolation, or the reason you purchased the book for me?  
TG: at this point i dont even fucking know  
TG: just say some shit  
TG: and ill just sit here and read it  
TG: thats the setup  
TT: Well, as far as extrapolation on sibling relationships, Akter Ahsen observed that desire for sexual contact is likely to be greater between sibings than any other relative group.  
TG: huh  
TG: weird  
TT: According to Ahsen, Freud experienced strong feelings of ambivalent love and rivalry towards several of his siblings.  
TG: so the dude was just one big polyamorous incest slut  
TT: Essentially.  
TG: what a warped freak  
TT: Indeed.  
TT: It makes one wonder about what he might think about our family dynamic.  
TT: Though I have a feeling you’d be more interested in Ahsen’s observations.  
TG: why  
TT: Why did you buy me this book?  
TG: because you like psychoanalyzing shit and because its exactly up your alley  
TG: why did you buy me a crocodile like shit rose  
TG: sometimes i just want to be nice to my family without you insinuating that its prep for the horizontal tango  
TT: But this isn’t one of those times, is it?  
TG: uh  
TG: yes  
TG: maybe  
TT: A twinge of ole’ Oedipus Rex  
My brother’s view on how to sex.  
But always what he’s truly missing  
Is found inside his only sibling  
Lest science or santa pave the way  
Of what he ought to do today  
TG: did you just  
TT: Most definitely.  
TG: shit  
TT: Never were truer words spoken.  
TG: so does this mean  
TT: I was thinking we could do some follow up testing.  
TG: follow up testing  
TT: Just a few experiments in the name of science and psychology, of course.  
TT: Nothing weird.  
TG: right  
TG: of course  
TT: Meet me in the pink Barbie Princess Dream Castle in eleven minutes.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

Despite the half-naked Jewish manservant in your kitchen that your alcoholic mother spent all night wrapping gifts with, and despite your estranged gay father who spends ninety-nine percent of his time in your presence overcompensating, and despite your younger brother who has an oedipus complex the size of Poe’s complete collection and who may have also just rubbed his half-hard dick against your leg, somehow, this isn’t even the worst Christmas you’ve had yet.

At the very least there’s eggnog to mix the rum in this year, and your mother is far too intoxicated to notice you and your brother drinking it in your personal after party in your shared pink Barbie princess tent. In the ten minutes of time that has elapsed since you saw him in the living room, Dave has managed to obtain an antler headband that jingles when he inclines his head and a bright red nose to match. He looks like a douche waffle with a heaping serving of extra douche, but somehow the irrepressible urge to kiss him manages to blindside you completely.

The two of you fit inside the tent, albeit awkwardly. Dave crosses his legs and you squeeze yours under your chin, back pressed against the side. “So…” he starts lamely. “Are you still green with envy or is that just the general incest and crimes against nature making you nauseous?”

You stare into his shades, wondering whether you’re that much of an open book or if your brother is merely that skilled at reading the crisp, protracted pages hidden behind your caustic remarks and psychological scrutiny. You decline answering in favor of slipping your hand into his. 

“I think this officially makes us the worst twins in the world,” you say as you lean into kiss him. 

His lips quirk against yours and you’re almost offended when Dave pulls away to mutter “Or the best.” The two of you kiss awkwardly, lips pressed tight, neck straining as you try to find a comfortable angle where his big red nose isn’t poking you obtrusively. You fumble for only a moment when his tongue presses against your lips. “Twincest is wincest,” he’s whispers before opening his mouth to suck on your tongue.

There’s definitely something wrong with your family dynamic if making out and macking on your brother is somehow acceptable. You figure you’ll have a mental breakdown about it later and focus on the now. Which is, your brother’s unfortunate below-average aptitude for kissing.

You try to steer his unskilled mouth in the proper direction but it’s nearly useless. When you close more of the distance to get a better angle you realize that you’re taller than him even when you aren’t straddling his lap. You also notice that’s he’s pitching a tent big enough to give the Barbie Princess Dream Castle a run for its money. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Dave. We are still blood siblings, you know,” you say from behind a smirk. Dave cracks a knowing smile of his own and nods wordlessly.

Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer plays in the distance as Dave removes his shades with exaggerated slowness. “Breaking out the big guns,” he explains. His eyes are too soft and lukewarm to be volcanic, more like tepid bathwater than the molten lava you misremembered. 

“Be careful,” you caution him. “I wouldn’t want to get shot.” 

Dave snorts. “I’ll keep the safety on just for you,” he says. “But I have to warn you, they are loaded,” he adds with a wink.

You kiss him again so you don’t have to listen to him extend the metaphor any further than he already has. The plastic bulb squishes against your nose when he shoves his tongue into your throat. When you yank away from him in abject horror his facade is too slow and you catch him cringing. 

“This doesn’t feel right,” you explain. Dave swallows and nods his head, staring up at you. 

“Weird like kissing your sister? Or weird like there’s a little leprechaun dancing a jig in your pants? Because if it’s the second one--” you cover his mouth with your hand. 

“Weird like you’re bad at it.”

When you remove your hand, all Dave says is, “Oh,” and that in itself is mildly disturbing.

“It was your first kiss,” you remind him.

His eyebrows shoot up and he scrambles to slam his shades back onto his face. “Says who?” he asks, voice high and cracked at the end. “I’ve kissed plenty of girls,” he argues. 

You roll your eyes. “Roxy doesn’t count,” you say tersely. 

His empty bravado falters. “Why the hell not?” he asks, trying to maintain what little of his dignity remains. 

Exasperated, you almost don’t answer him. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps because she’s our mother?”

You realize how deeply flawed that logic is only moments after you finish speaking, and you shut Dave up with another kiss before he can respond. His mouth falls open almost immediately but you take your time lavishing his lips before licking your way inside his mouth. You maintain control by tightening your fingers around his shoulders. When his tongue brushes enthusiastically against yours the faint taste of rum invades your mouth. You slow the process by nipping at his bottom lip. He squeaks and you grin from ear to ear with satisfaction.

The quality of the kisses increases with the passing of time, but you aren’t positive how you feel about his hands making their way to your chest. You break the kiss to stare down at where his fingers are pressing tentatively against the fabric of your pink and purple pajama top. “Second base?” you question. “And here I was under the impression sports weren’t your strong suit.”

Dave scoffs. “Every suit is my strong suit. I wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy and slip into my sports suit Mark 42 like a football playing Tony Stark.”

“I believe one generally plays the bases in baseball, not football,” you quip. 

Dave shrugs and gives your breasts another firm squeeze. “Feels like a touchdown to me,” he says playfully.

“Did I just hear my little man making a sports reference?” inquires a voice from outside the tent.

Dave’s reflexes are lightning fast but with his brain fogged with hormones he doesn’t hear Dirk approaching until it’s too late. You don’t notice him yourself until he flips open the entrance to the small, cramped space you and Dave have crammed yourselves into. 

“I shouldn’t have said that earlier,” he apologizes. Cognitive abilities cease working and his jaw drops. There’s a good six inches between you and Dave now, but it’s too late. He already saw. Dave wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Dirk visibly cringes.

“Jesus santa fucking christ,” he says at last. “Aren’t you two,” he forces out before stopping to breathe, trying to control himself. “Aren’t you two a little old for this sort of shit?” he trails off, absently staring at you.

You and Dave answer simultaneously. “Probably. Definitely. Yes.”

Dirk stands there as shocked as you've ever seen him. His chest rises and falls with increasing speed, and you can tell his legs are trembling even at this distance. His lip curls in disgust and Dave quickly retracts his hands and wipes them against his black skinny jeans. Your heart should be threatening to burst from your chest, blood pressure accelerating, anxiety skyrocketing--but instead you feel nothing short of an eerie wave of calmness and calamity.

“This is fucked up,” Dirk says at last. “Even for us.” He says it as if he's to blame for the sloppy makeout Barbie Princess rendezvous.

His voice still isn't one hundred percent steady, but Dave gives it his best shot. “I blame a lack of parental  
guidance,” he says. 

You mutely nod your head. “The lack of a strong male role model in my life has warped my sexuality entirely,” you lie. 

Dave is quick to interject. “Between having a homosexual father and a mother with a substance abuse problem, I'm honestly surprised I'm not attempting to fornicate with the family dog.” 

Dirk remains expressionless. “We don't have a dog,” he says tersely, as if that’s the part of the sentence that’s relevant.

“My pet tarantula is always enthusiastic for interspecies exploration,” you offer. Dirk opens his mouth to speak, gapes for a few moments, and drops the tent flap.

A few moments pass in silence where you aren't sure what the next step is. There's no precedent for this between you and Dave, and you haven't seen The Royal Tanenbaums enough times to be well versed on post-incestual makeout behavior. 

“Lots of popular couples are related,” your brother assures you. You arch a brow and Dave rushes to explain. “Like...uh, Nala and Simba! Incest is on the rise in popular media. Before we know it we'll be rallying in the streets and holding protests for the right to marry.” His thumb rubs soothing circles at your wrist, and you feel two distinct emotions that are rarely present: affection and gratitude.

“I never thought I’d say this,” you say slowly, measuring you words. “But I’m glad I didn’t absorb you during gestation.” 

Dirk pulls back the flap of the tent, effectively ruining an emotional moment for the second time today. “And I never thought I’d say this,” he says with a heavy sigh. “But stop making out with your sister and get in the living room so we can order Chinese.”

Dave’s lips quirk into a smile and you release a heavy sigh as relief surges through you.

“I told your mother,” Dirk confesses. 

You inwardly cringe and hope against all hope that your mother didn't hear him over her booze-haze and sexual objectification of Will Ferrell in an elf costume. 

Your eyes widen as Roxy calls out to you from the other room. “Come on my little flowers in the attic,” she says fondly. “The Chinese food isn’t going to order itself!” 

Dave shrugs his shoulders when you make bemused eye contact. You really shouldn't be surprised. Dave wrings his hands out and opens his mouth to speak. “I know the moment has passed, but since we're all saying things we never thought we'd say...well, I never thought I’d get to make this joke in this context, but hey, at least we’re--”

Dirk cuts him off completely. “Keeping it in family,” he deadpans. 

Two sets of eyes swivel to stare at you when you laugh, mouth open in a wide, genuine smile. Dave’s eyebrows furrow as he punches him in the shoulder. “Joke thief,” he mumbles. 

Bro delivers a haughty smirk. “You deserve at least this much,” he says, eyes skittering between the two of you. “You sick nasty trash,” he adds affectionately. 

You were starting to think that maybe Christmas wasn’t a holiday at all, but rather a testament to your capacity to not perforate people’s abdomens with festive pointy tree ornaments. However, even the most magnanimous people are capable of human error and folly (yourself included.) “At last, I know the true meaning of Christmas,” you say, allowing a small smile to creep onto your face. 

Dirk rolls his eyes and turns tail. “Pretty sure this ain’t what they mean when they say spending time with your family,” he says as the flap closes behind him.

“This is exactly what they meant,” Dave says, leaning in for another ill aimed kiss. He pulls away with a purposely wet smack, leaving your cheek damp.

“Stop making out!” Bro shouts from the living room. 

“Yeah,” adds your mother. “Mommy feels all left out!” she complains. The two of you begin heading out of the tent and you can hear your mother audibly swoon. “It’s been so long,” she says dreamily. 

Rum and bacon churn in your stomach. “If you kids don’t get out here, I’m making out with your mother!” Bro threatens. The two of you concede, crawling out of the tent and heading for the living room with minimal amounts of shame for the feat you just accomplished.

“Not if I get there first,” you say as you enter the living room.

Your mother gasps. “Rosey,” she says dramatically, eyes bright and drunken smile wide. “I didn’t know you cared.” 

You heave a blustering sigh and press your lips chastely to the side of her face. “Neither did I,” you say as Dave kisses her other cheek.

As far as families go yours might be fucked six Freudian ways to Sunday, but given more recent events in your life, you're starting to think you fit in just fine.


End file.
